


Bubblewrapped Knives

by sinkies69



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Psychological Horror, Trauma, nonsense w/ no plot just word vomit i hope u love it xx
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 00:31:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11391621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinkies69/pseuds/sinkies69
Summary: "A dying house and bleeding cement - gut wrenching, visceral fear."





	Bubblewrapped Knives

The sky stretches out in vast swathes of grey and white, the sun glaring through its cloudy filter to bathe the street in a cold, crisp light. There's a soft breeze in the air, not harsh enough to slither through the fabric of your jacket, but just enough to make it sway in gentle reminder – a clinging, needy chill starved for warm skin, incorporeal hands cloying to uproot your flesh into dappled goosebumps. You slide your hands into the sanctuary of your pockets, fingers curling protectively around nothing, nails digging absent-mindedly into the palm of your hand. Your neck tickles with the beginnings of an ache, head craned back to loll at the empty sky. You struggle to recall why you were staring heavenwards in the first place, but you gradually remember why you're here and realise you must be stalling.

You lower your gaze to the house in front of you – it's daunting despite its small stature, a poor, rotting old thing. _It's not the house that scares you,_ the intrusive thought worms its way into your head, unwanted, and oozes a dreadful reminder into your skull – _it’s what happened here that does…_ Your lips curl in distaste and you wish away the voice, taking a few determined steps towards the house. You falter as you reach the front gate – your first obstacle. _Just open it._ Your eyes, ringed dark from a lack of sleep, twitch nervously over your surroundings, the wilderness and sea to your back and the abandoned street before you – the abandoned, still empty street. Still empty. 

“Still empty,” you murmur, voice cracked and barely loud enough to be heard over the whistle of the wind. “Still empty...” You've stopped speaking aloud but the words _Still Empty_ double, triple, then double again in your head, a ceaseless mantra that pushes all other thoughts away and the blood in your veins to your legs – so you move. Your hands press forcefully and the gate screeches in protest, but you push on, fingers stuttering in place, palms slick with sweat – and eventually it gives, reluctant under your touch but powerless nonetheless. You stumble forward, legs buzzing with an energy that has pooled deep within you and only rises – you're not sure where it came from, but it feels as though the moment you laid eyes on this house it started to drip, leaking pent up adrenalin into your body. Indiscernible plants have flourished in the front garden, but not the kindly sort – they claw their way up from the soil, bristly thorns outstretched like decaying hands, far from the forgiving, merciful touch of the sun. You pass through, reaching the doorstep with but a few pale scrapes. There's a sense of something ancient, almost vengeful, beyond these premises - the door acting as some crooked, geometric tunnel to another world. There's a tense moment as your hand frets over the handle, before an unknown force seemingly floods your body, culminating in your upper torso as you hastily shoulder your way through the unlocked door.

As you stumble into the house's entrance, you are faced with a hallway – there's a dizzying sense of familiarity as you inch forward across the wheezing, crying floorboards. You are vaguely aware of the door sliding shut behind you with a soft click, a barely perceptible sound amidst the hunkering static the house envelops you in. The paintings on the wall hang obendiently still but loom all the same, curving into your peripheral vision, reaching out but never touching. You realise that as soon as you set foot in this building, your body had tugged itself into a hunched, tightly coiled stance, ready to spring into action, to flee if need be – eyes darting, jaw clenched and a nervous twitch of the hand at every step. You're beginning to doubt yourself – _he's not still here, is he?_ You saw him leave, but what if he comes back early? There might be a back door, you don't know this place – _no you do, you do know it._

You've never been so certain. You know this place in its smell and its muted, gnarly colours, its daunting, towering walls, reaching into an impossible sky of smoke – you can't see it but it's there. You're sure of it. You power on, resisting the impulse to wheeze like the floorboards beneath your feet. The hall ends with a door to the left, and you see, with a spike of panic in your chest, that yes, there is a backdoor. Frozen for but a moment, you move back down the hall, ducking your head into each room, waiting for the right one to pounce – and then it leaps. It's the last door you check, left just barely ajar that you can peer through a feeble slit of space. You press your fingers against splintered, scratched wood and push with little effort, the door swinging open with an immediate whine as a result of weak, shaky hinges, barely clinging to the rest of the door. But you don't have the time to think on it any longer – as you step over the room's threshold, your breath hitches jarringly, an indescribable sense of fear holding it hostage in your throat as you sweep your widened eyes over the room before you.

The thick, muggy smell of tobacco overwhelms you, but there's no sign of smoke (you're breathing has become ragged and torn, but you haven't noticed yet – it's been escalating in pace since you ventured into this place) – you can feel it curling over your skin, touching and tugging at nothing and everything all at once – the memories of this place are washing over you and you can feel it, physically, it's all there, but you just can't see it. In the corner of the room is a small TV, the screen scratched and dirtied, an unrecognisable stain splayed across the screen – and sitting in plain site, propped up against the grimy TV, is a VHS tape. You feel an odd sense of both relief and dread at the sight of it, and you move forward to hesitantly pick it up, barely withholding the urge to simply grab it and run, to get out of this place and never look back – you reach down and curl your fingers around the tape, and as you raise your other hand to clear it of dust, you realise there is none – it's spotless. The implications of what this could mean slither into your head like a growing bed of snakes, a rising homophony of hissing thoughts – _it's been used!_ – you subconsciously clench your hand around the tape, nails digging in harshly and quieting your train of thought as you notice the tape's yellowed label and it's engraved words. You hum the tape's title aloud, voice tugging at the tenuous silence of the room. This must be it, then. You hold it in your clenched, clammy hands, the edges and points of its solid outline molding your malleable, impressionable skin to its chunky form. You can't see it through your white knuckled grip, but you can feel it – its inanimate frame digging insistently, grimy plastic curving grooves into your perspiring hands – it's a grounding sensation that prompts you to the present, that swivels you by the shoulders to face the smoke, and tips your head to the right – to the window, graced with the fluttering caress of a moth eaten curtain – frail it may be, it succeeds in concealing the shattered indecency of blemished panes and crumbling, snarling glass – and there, you spot it. A jaunty silhouette drags itself across the beige curtain. Its movements are haggard – every jolt and stumbled step forward is that of a beast, yet the form is distinctly human.

And you are distinctly afraid – an understatement, maybe.

You stand there, hunched in the palm of fear's commanding hand, it's prickling fingers curling with deadly intent around you – you are petrified, and all of a sudden the walls are swallowing the room you stand in, swelling and shrinking, and you're beginning to think you've overstayed your 'visit'. The unearthly body outside has since moved past the gate. Panic spikes to an all time high – the sensation from before, the strong guiding hand that directed your gaze to the oncoming threat returns – you just barely feel its cool breath on your neck, as it shoves you forward in a scrambling, frantic motion, sinking its disembodied form to move in sync with your own. The oppressive heat of the house, its smoke, its wailing floorboards and keening doors all vanish with each racing step you take – you're moving down the hall, and distantly you hear the screaming whinge of the front door slamming open, and the deafening thud as it hits the wall. Your breath and legs stutter, if only for a moment, when moonlight steps through on dainty feet, casting pale limbs in its wake as it is split down the middle by the shadow of a distorted figure – the face is a blur, and you don't bother waiting for clarity to grace you with its presence – although the air hangs like a heavy arm around your shoulders, unwelcoming and stifling, you tear through its soggy heat to the backdoor, cutting the distance with your legs, feet skidding as you narrowly avoid slamming into the rotten, damp wooden surface – the yelling chasing your ears and the vibration of feet thudding along injured floorboards all fades into white noise, and as you wrench the door open, your heart lodges in your throat as every inch of the house seems to beg you to run – the paintings along the hall rattle and shake like an alarm bell, and every nook and cranny of this feeble excuse for a home screams _run, run, run! Don't come back, don't ever come back, don't ever, ever, ever!_ – and quite suddenly, simply, it's gone.

Your feet sweep you through a garden more suited to the title of a graveyard, heels snapping and crushing the corpses and mangled bodies of weeds and flowers – you barely register an aggravated voice slowing and stumbling to a wheezy halt someways behind you. Vaulting over a fence, you find yourself on a steep decline, tripping and slipping your way down muddy terrain, before the world is shrouded in fuzzy shades of green and living, breathing towers of trees. Time is swallowed by adrenalin and your conscious thought disappears into your bones and burning muscles – your perception is narrowed to the comforting thud of solid, earthy ground – and then, a moment later you find yourself in a clearing. You stand there, lungs gulping each mouthful of oxygen as though every erratic inhale will be its last. You sway, feeling the whiplash of such a physical exertion bring you to your knees. Gazing at the soil beneath you, eyes heavily lidded with exhaustion, you breathe a deep rooted sigh that wells up and slumps out your lips, that drips down your chin and dries away into nothingness.

Your hand is still clutched around the VHS tape, clinging so tight it may as well be a part of you. A stream trickles nearby, bubbling and frothing with gentle persistence. The moon's light reaches down with gentle hands, porcelain fingers and palms cut into dappled outlines by the trembling of leaves above. The earth is cool and welcoming, so forgiving in its nature that you find yourself resting upon its lap, its damp, firm body encompassing you in a consoling embrace. The house over the hill has stilled, and rests as nothing but a dark smear on the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it <3


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